It was fortunate that, closely adjacent to this station, there was an hotel—a small, unpretentious establishment, which nobody who was perfectly master of his own actions would think of selecting for a temporary abode if he had the means of paying for his entertainment and refreshment elsewhere. Such as it was, however, it was deemed expedient to rest the burden under its shelter. The poor man was carried into the hostelry, and placed on a cosy bed, that formed the leading part of the furniture of a best bedroom.
He now rallied. He called for brandy, and was supplied with a small portion of a liquor probably distilled from potatoes in London, but retailed as the finest cognac.
The liquor seemed to have a good effect on the wounded traveller. After a few minutes’ consciousness, articulation was restored under its genial influence. He asked one of the people in attendance to take from his breast-pocket a pocket-book, and from that pocket-book to take out a letter, the envelope of which gave his address:
“Mr. Ephraham Sweetman,
“19 —— Street, Pimlico.”
The injured traveller was able to sustain a brief conversation.
“Is this your address, my good man?”
“Yes,” was the feeble reply.
“Are you very much injured?”
“Yes,” was again slowly and faintly articulated.
“Are these your name and address?” was asked by another person; and the interrogator held before the eyes of the wounded passenger the envelope of the letter extracted from his pocket.